It was raining.
No, Cullen amended as he dashed the water from his eyes with the back of one hand, saying it was raining didn't quite do the weather justice. It rained in Kirkwall. It rained in Ferelden. Cullen knew rain. This, whatever this was? It wasn't rain. It was cold and it was wet and he was pretty sure it was the unholy offspring of rain and snow.
A splatter of moisture hit his bent neck and trickled down his spine. Cullen shuddered and twisted, as though movement might somehow make the wet less wretched. It didn't work.
The unholy offspring of rain, snow, and possibly some kind of demon. That sounded about right.
He also suspected a demon was behind the design of the… thing he was holding that Amelle assured him was meant to be a tent. As far as he could tell it was a large, unwieldy piece of fabric with far too many corners and a bizarre assortment of pockets, none of which seemed to have any use, or made any sense no matter how he twisted and turned. The thing had a flap, and he was fairly certain the flap was meant to be a door, but… that was the extent of his understanding.
And it was demonically raining. Hard.
Amelle stood opposite him, holding two slender poles of different lengths. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and—if possible—she looked even more miserable than he felt, which was miserable indeed. She frowned at the poles as though frowning might somehow induce them to start making sense.
"Where did you find this thing?" Cullen said, grimacing.
"Bodahn left it behind."
Another raindrop, even colder than the last, followed the trail down his spine and Cullen dropped the corner of fabric he was holding to rub warmth back into the skin at his neck. "And you don't have any idea how to set it up?"
She glowered. "If I knew what to do, I'd do it, Cullen. I didn't think it would be this hard."
Cullen took one of the poles from the pile at his feet and tried threading it through one of the pockets, but the pocket was far too long and the pole far too short. With a huff of disgust, he dashed the pole to the ground again. "We could… crawl inside the fabric? It seems… weatherproof."
"It's a tent. Are you honestly saying between the two of us we can't figure out how to set up a simple tent?"
Cullen tried to narrow his eyes at her, but his eyelashes were full of raindrops and he really only succeeded in half-blinding himself with water. "We haven't managed it yet. So yes, I'm honestly saying we seem incapable of figuring it out."
Amelle shook her head, undaunted, and lifted yet another pole of yet another incomprehensible length.
"Did it occur to you that perhaps Bodahn left it behind because it doesn't work?"
He could tell by the way she went rigid that it hadn't.
"It has to work," she muttered. "It's a tent. Tents just don't not work." An ominous pause followed. "…Do they?"
Cullen wasn't quite up to telling Amelle a piece of material and poles of varying lengths didn't have to do anything. Honestly, it wouldn't have been quite so unbearable if this — sleet, he decided; it had to be sleet — wasn't blinding and freezing him at turns. The sky had darkened with the storm, and as the day grew later, their light was fading. He'd long since lost any hope of a campfire growing to anything beyond a sputtering smolder, which meant they were doomed to darkness, coldness, and dampness, all in one fell swoop.
Light. We need light and shelter if we're going to put this together. Heat wouldn't go amiss, either. He looked again at Amelle, her clothes soaked through, her teeth chattering — though she was keeping her head bowed, so Cullen suspected she didn't want him noticing that particular detail.
"Amelle," he said, giving the supposed tent a vigorous shake, sending droplets of water everywhere.
"What?" she asked, and he heard a strain in her voice, the slightest hitch, and he realized Amelle was keeping her head bowed and refusing to look him in the face for another reason.
"Amelle?" She turned away and looked harder at the poles, only the barest jerk of her shoulders indicating she'd heard him at all. "Are you… crying?"
"No." She swiped angrily at her face, ostensibly wiping away rainwater. Cullen chose not to vocalize his sigh. Given how miserable they were already, he saw no point in making the situation worse. And Cullen knew beyond a shadow of a doubt things could always get worse. He drew in a breath and let it out again, slowly.
"Your… barrier spell. Would it repel," he gestured upward, "this? At least long enough for us to make heads or bloody tails of this… tent?" He injected incredulity and not a little bit of venom into the word — hopefully enough to make Amelle realize it was the object itself and not her he was so displeased with.
"It might."
"Worth a try, wouldn't you say?" But she'd already dropped the blighted poles and was hefting up her staff. With a shimmer, the air seemed to bend and glow around them. Soon, Cullen realized it looked as if the air had warped because frozen rain was no longer falling down upon them, but rather trailing down the sides of the protective bubble Amelle had conjured. Breathing out a sigh, he sat back on his heels and wiped the water away from his face again. This time, more didn't immediately fall to replace it. Thank the Maker.
"I probably should have thought of that sooner," she said, and before Cullen could even suggest it, Amelle held out her other hand, letting a ball of flame lick to life in her palm. It gave off more light than warmth, but the situation was already improving. He turned again to the impossible puzzle of canvas and sticks.
"Are we quite sure the map showed no caves?"
"The map shows nothing," she complained. "Nothing but trees, more trees, and entirely too many mountains. No caves. No towns. No civilization."
One of the horses snorted, echoing Cullen's unvoiced derision. At least they were tethered under the trees, but even that was weak protection from the elements.
Amelle stepped closer, gazing down at the heap of fabric. "I think that's the door," she said.
He swallowed his terse reply, mostly because she didn't deserve it, and partly because the very last thing they needed was to be at each other's throats. Flexing his fingers to bring some warmth back, Cullen pushed his hands through his dripping hair and began sorting the sticks into piles.
"I'm sorry," she said. "If I hadn't been in such a hurry…"
"Never mind that," he replied. "You were in a hurry for a reason. I blame the tent. Clearly raising it is a feat equivalent to the building of a castle. You weren't to know."
When he glanced over his shoulder, he found her still troubled. The light from her fire cast shadows across her face, illuminating the shadows of worry under her eyes. He could see then she had been crying; the evidence of her tears was clear enough in reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks. Instead of drawing attention to it, he only offered a smile he hoped looked bolstering.
"We've got an odd number of poles," he said.
"Is that… bad?"
"I have no idea. Maybe they… fit together somehow?"
Amelle bit her bottom lip, scrutinizing the piles. "Do you suppose the tent makes a triangle?"
He snorted lightly. "It could be any shape in the world. All I know is it has a door."
"And it's waterproof."
"We think it's waterproof."
"If worse comes to worse, we could always… drape it over some bushes and sleep underneath it?"
"In the mud?"
She sighed so mournfully that, for a moment, he almost thought she was about to start weeping again. "Something tells me there's going to be no avoiding the mud, no matter what we do."
Cullen glanced down at the churned, wet muck at their feet and uttered his own sigh, just as mournful. "Maker's breath, you're right. We're probably never going to be warm and dry again."
"We could just…" Amelle paused, her face screwing up in distaste, "keep going."
Cullen's hands were well on the way to numb and he imagined handling the reins, then shook his head. "I'm afraid we'd be doing ourselves no favors there," he said, holding the material out and trying to envision what shape it could possibly be, under the right circumstances. "Especially if the ground is this loose all along the path. Better not to risk injuring yourself or the horses."
"Cullen," Amelle said, and a ghost of her old tone seeped into her voice. "Healer."
He looked up and sent her a stern glower. "A healer who ought to know better than to ignore her limits. Better we stop."
"And rest," she supplied. "In our tent."
"How much longer do you think your barrier will hold?"
"Against the rain? Roughly long enough for you to build a castle. Not quite long enough to assemble that blighted thing." The flames licked higher in her palm and for a moment Cullen thought it looked a great deal like Amelle was imagining the mess of material and poles burning. For a moment he imagined it too.
"I think we have to take the draping option," he said, frowning at one pole, which appeared to have some sort of notch at the end that made it seem as though it was meant to fit into another pole, but none of the others had a corresponding groove. "Underneath the tree, perhaps. Marginally less mud, there."
Amelle kept the barrier intact while Cullen carried the unwieldy would-be tent — heavier than it ought to have been, soaked through with water as it was, causing Cullen to have serious doubts about its impermeability — beneath the boughs of the tree. Once there, he stuck four poles of similar height into the muck and draped the material over it.
One of the poles began to shift in the mud and tilted, making the whole affair cant forlornly as water began to pool at the top then drip down one side.
Amelle let out a sigh. "It's just for one night, right?"
Maker, I hope so.
Hope or no hope, there was no dry ground to be found, and no dry wood to burn. Amelle tried to light a log, but even her magical flame guttered and smoked and refused to catch. After half a dozen such attempts, and with both of them reduced to coughing by the acrid smoke, Amelle said, "I'm sorry. I think we'll have to do without."
Cullen had been willing to admit as much after the second or third failed attempt, but he only shook his head and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. Exhaustion made him feel even colder, and his head ached. After a moment, he heaved a rock aside, rolling it away to reveal a precious patch of dry ground beneath. A plethora of bugs and worms wriggled, burrowing away from the light. Cullen pretended not to see Amelle's shudder.
Their bedrolls, unsurprisingly, were as wet as everything else. Still, he managed to find the driest of the damp blankets, spreading it across the almost-dry—and now mostly insect-free—patch of earth. He sat on one end, and patted the ground next to him. Amelle hesitated, but then the sinking pole sank a little further, and the canvas drooped even closer to her head. With a groan of dismay, she dropped next to him, wrapping her arms around her legs.
"Can I offer you something cold and likely damp for dinner?" he asked, aiming for humor and falling short.
"I'm too cold to be hungry," she grumbled. "And too wet to sleep."
"One does have a tendency to forget the caprice of climate, when one has a convenient roof to hide under."
Turning her head slightly, she arched an eyebrow. "Are you laughing at me, Cullen?"
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Would I dare?"
Their makeshift roof was doing a reasonable job of keeping the rain off, but could do little to stop the wind from nipping at them. Amelle huddled closer. He hesitated a moment before putting an arm about her shoulders. She sighed again, but this time the sound was more relieved than frustrated.
"I hate rain," she muttered. "And I hate wind. And I hate everything."
"Do you know what I hate?" Cullen asked. On her querying look he pointed up and replied, "This tent."
"My feelings for the tent surpass mere hatred," Amelle said. "Loathing might be more accurate."
"Abhorrence, even?"
Her smile was weak, but it was there. "Good one." She was just opening her mouth to say something else when they heard a faint sound absolutely not caused by wind or sleety-rain. Amelle stiffened at his side, and Cullen felt her gathering her magic. He inhaled sharply.
"Is it wild animals?" Amelle whispered. "Bears?"
Cullen shook his head, but allowed his hand to inch toward his blade. "I doubt it. Animals don't usually sound… metallic."
"Bandits?" Amelle's eyes widened in the dark. "Slavers, maybe?" He saw her fingers curl tightly about her staff. "I know we haven't had a lot of opportunity to work on technique, but if it comes to battle you're probably familiar enough with the range of—"
"Amelle," Cullen said softly. "I don't think that will be necessary."
"You can't take out an entire—"
"It's not bandits," he said, peering into the gloom. "It's… Fenris."
#
It had come as no surprise to Fenris when the weather turned. The weather on the mountain passes was notoriously unpredictable. It hadn't even been a surprise when the rain turned into sleet. It was unpleasant, but the animal Merrill had secured for him was a hardy beast, and though its steps slowed the heavier the sleet fell, it continued on, lowering its head against the elements, hooves moving doggedly through the thickening mud. He typically had little use for horses, but this one seemed to sense his resolve and responded admirably.
When the scent of smoke met his nose, he nudged the animal onward. Doubtless Amelle and the Knight-Commander had chosen to make camp for the night. Fenris could almost imagine Amelle scowling at too-damp kindling, determined to make it light and scowling harder when all her efforts produced was smoke. He nearly smiled, and then he remembered.
She would have left without him. She would have traveled to Starkhaven alone, heedless of the dangers such a journey would invite. He wanted to be thankful the Knight-Commander was traveling with her, but mainly he kept hearing the words from that hastily-scrawled note falling from Merrill's lips.
It says… it says, oh dear. It says Hawke's been poisoned and Amelle's leaving for Starkhaven. She nearly left on her own, but he's — well, that's something, at least. He's going with her. Why do you suppose she'd do that, Fenris? Leave without any of us like that? Oh—there's a map. Well, that's helpful. He means for you to follow, I think. His writing is quite horrible. You'd suppose a templar Knight-Commander would have better penmanship…
Fenris tried to convince himself that, in her haste, Amelle thought she could travel faster alone, that in her worry and concern for her sister that she simply hadn't thought to bring anyone along. His own worry, nagging and pulling in his gut, told quite a different tale, however, and the thought of her endangering herself so foolishly made his temper spike.
Strangely, no light permeated the gloom, despite the fact Fenris could smell smoke indicative of some sort of attempt at a campfire. Attempted, then, he thought, but not successful. But they must have stopped nearby—
The sounds of two other horses, whinnying their displeasure at the storm, carried on the wind, and he pushed at his horse's sides with his heels, turning the beast in that direction, his eyes narrowed against the elements and encroaching darkness, trying to pick out the silhouette of their campsite. He saw nothing.
Then the flick and flare of light illuminated the dusky gloom, and Fenris saw the Knight-Commander and Amelle, looking miserable beyond words. Both were chilled and soaked to the bone, and Amelle, at least, had been crying. He could see evidence of it in the light of the flame she held. Whatever had induced her to tears earlier, he saw no sign of it in her face now. Now he only saw shock in her widening eyes. Shock, dismay, and, though the sight of it pulled uncomfortably at him, something very much like fear. Without wanting to, Fenris recalled the way Amelle had flinched away from him.
This was worse than the scorn he'd been bracing himself to face. Still, Fenris had no intention of letting her make this journey without him.
He saw her inhale, her brow furrowing, and as her lips parted—to send him away, not that he'd heed her—the pathetic structure keeping the rain off of them shuddered and collapsed, and whatever words Amelle had been about to speak were lost to a shriek of alarm.
With a muttered curse, Fenris leapt from the back of his horse, sending it a glare as he flipped the reins over a convenient tree branch. The horse met the glare placidly, and lowered its head, nosing the ground at its feet for anything worth grazing. Fenris strode across the uneven, mud-slick ground and heaved the wet canvas off of the struggling forms beneath.
"Fenris," the Knight-Commander greeted. Fenris narrowed his eyes and inclined his head slightly.
Amelle staggered to her feet, bent to collect her staff, slipped in the mud, and landed hard once again on her tailbone. Without hesitation, Fenris reached down, grasped her forearm in a strong grip and pulled her bodily upright once again. Standing this close, he could see the flush under the tearstains. Amelle's jaw worked silently, but instead of saying anything, she only pulled her hand away and curled it into a fist, pressed against her thigh.
Fenris let his own arm drop back to his side as he cast his gaze around the dismal little campsite. The tent—for tent he supposed it must be—lay in a crumpled heap where he'd thrown it aside, its poles scattered. The wet firepit still reeked of smoke, and all their belongings lay in a mound beside the horses.
"This is an ill-considered location for a camp," Fenris said at last. "And why did you not assemble the tent?"
Amelle glowered down at the crumpled fabric, but the Knight-Commander was the one who answered, "Our map is… flawed. And the tent more so. We thought to look for cover, but we were losing light and at least this spot had trees."
"But no water source," Fenris pointed out.
The Knight-Commander glanced skyward and raised both eyebrows.
"Sleet is not a water source," he pointed out. "Gather your gear — I am familiar with a small system of caves not far from here."
Amelle and the templar exchanged a look. "The map shows nothing of the sort," he said, his words cautious as he gathered up the tent.
"Then I suspect your map is… incomplete." He glanced at Amelle, busying herself with her pack and untethering one of the horses. He turned his attention back to the Knight-Commander, adding, "I came through these very mountains on my journey to Kirkwall. I know them well enough."
Both accepted this without argument; the Knight-Commander seemed almost relieved at the news, but Amelle appeared strangely… subdued, which Fenris read as acceptance despite her displeasure at his arrival. It stung when she refused to look at him, but he did not find himself surprised at her avoidance. In any case, locating proper shelter was more important, and provided Fenris with a useful and effective distraction. Mounting the horses again, Fenris led the way along the muddy path, farther up into the mountains. Darkness and rain conspired to make the route impassable, but before Fenris could even think to ask, the glow of magic flared to life just to his right.
"…Thank you," he said, after far too long a pause.
"It… it's getting dark," Amelle replied, quietly. "You needed light."
The yawning mouth of the cave appeared just around a corner on the right; the entrance was large enough for them to enter one horse at a time, but once they were within, the space opened up, offering shelter enough for themselves and the horses. It had been used before — the dead and blackened remnants of a firepit remained near the mouth of the cave — but not for some time.
Amelle lowered herself down from the saddle, grimacing when her boots squelched with water, and strode over to examine the fire site, frowning at it. "We haven't any wood," she murmured to no one in particular, then looked around the cave. "There might be some moss around, but nothing that will feed a fire properly."
The Knight-Commander looked around them and shook his head. "We may have to do withou—"
"To the Void with that," she grumbled, turning a speculative eye on the horse she'd been riding. It was still laden with supplies, and before Fenris could ask what she thought she was doing, she pulled free one of the several staffs strapped along the side of the horse, hidden underneath the stirrups and saddle flaps. It was a plain, wooden affair — not one of her favorites, he knew, but dependable all the same — and before either of them could utter a word, she swung it hard against the wall of the cave. A small shower of sparks — magic — startled the horses as the staff shattered and splintered, but in an instant it was a useless pile of wood.
No, not useless. Fenris found himself smiling at Amelle's resourcefulness, turning and unloading the baggage as she busied herself with the fire and the Knight-Commander tended the horses. It was immediately clear that whatever Amelle had planned for—if planned could even be the right word—she had neglected to take weather into consideration. Their packs were only vaguely waterproof, and the torrential downpour had drenched everything within save the herbs and ingredients Amelle had—thankfully—packed in an oiled leather. After draping every wet thing on obliging rocks, Fenris turned to his own perfectly dry pack, and retrieved a dry set of clothing. Then he crossed the cave and settled the bundle next to Amelle, shivering in her still-wet clothes before her small fire.
"I'm fine," she said in an undertone, looking down at his offering as a means to avoid looking at him.
"You are not," he replied. "You are shivering."
"I'm not shivering," she lied, through teeth most definitely chattering.
"Amelle," the Knight-Commander said softly. "Take the clothes. You'll be more comfortable."
"Why don't you take them instead?"
The templar's laugh was so abrupt even he looked startled by it. "While I don't doubt watching me attempt to squeeze into Fenris' clothing might be amusing for all, I think I'll refrain. But you needn't suffer."
"I'm not suffering," she argued, attempting to sound convincing and failing miserably.
A look Fenris recognized well shifted across the Knight-Commander's face. He'd seen it often enough on Sebastian's features. The templar was clearly praying for strength. Or patience. Or perhaps restraint.
"You'll catch your death," he pointed out, reasonably. "And, honestly, if I've forgotten what it feels like to be dry and comfortable, I know you have. Take the clothes, Amelle."
Having had every avenue of argument summarily removed, Amelle hesitated once more, then finally nodded and took the clothes up into her hands, mumbling her thanks.
"A-all right, so… now, both of you turn around."
They did as Amelle bade. More than once Fenris heard Amelle cursing under her breath as she tried to peel away her soaked-through and unwieldy clothing. The fire crackled softly and Fenris spent a great deal of effort listening to the flames, and not to the sounds of discarded clothing landing wetly on the cave floor.
"Okay. I'm decent."
When he turned again, Amelle was busily draping her wet clothes near the fire so they might dry. His own simple black tunic and leggings seemed strange on her. The cut of the tunic was too broad for her slender shoulders, and made her look smaller than she truly was. The leggings fit better, but revealed the gentle swell of her hips, which was far more distracting than Fenris would have liked. When he lifted his eyes to hers, he realized Amelle been watching him. Setting his jaw, he turned away with a jerk and busied himself with his pack, needlessly checking his supplies.
"Well you certainly look less like a drowned rat," the Knight-Commander said, breaking the silence and, Fenris suspected, attempting to cut the tension. "You're remembering what warm and dry feels like now, I imagine?"
Amelle exhaled a soft snort and said, "It's coming back to me." She rummaged through her own supplies a while longer, withdrawing a small metal kettle from its depths and filling it with a waterskin from one of her saddlebags.
She heated the water with a flare of magic, and in no time at all the three of them had metal cups of steaming hot tea in their hands. In the meantime, the strained silence had returned, settling over them and thickening the air in such a way that no amount of small talk could disperse it.
Amelle sat and stared into the depths of her cup for some time before finally lifting her head and looking squarely at Fenris. The expression in her eyes was a guarded, apprehensive one.
"How did you find us here?" she asked.
Fenris' eyes went briefly to the Knight-Commander, who was looking wretchedly sheepish. Amelle followed his gaze, and arched an eyebrow at the templar.
"I—it was a mistake to attempt this journey alone, Amelle."
"I wasn't alone, Cullen. That was the whole point of you coming with me."
He glared at her and shook his head. "We've no idea what awaits us in Starkhaven. Whatever your reasons for—" he stopped himself, but Fenris could tell what the other man wasn't saying. "I left Fenris a note telling him where we'd gone."
"You left Fenris a note," Amelle echoed, betrayal and, worst of all, hurt writ large on her features. "After I said—"
The Knight-Commander let out a sigh and shook his head. "You were upset and frightened for your sister. I can hardly blame you, but—"
Here, Fenris set his cup down with a metallic plink, the sound echoing in the small cave. "I swore to your sister I would keep you from harm. More than that, after all she has done for me, if Hawke is in any kind of danger, I am doubly obligated. I… I will accompany you to her side and do whatever is within my power to assist her."
He could see Amelle's discomfiture, but rather than giving voice to her thoughts, she drank down the dregs of her tea. The tunic slipped slightly, revealing the soft curve of one shoulder. Amelle scowled, tugging at the fabric, only to have it drape to reveal more of the milky skin of her chest. This time when Fenris forced himself to look away, the Knight-Commander's gaze caught him out. The templar's expression was so carefully bland, Fenris knew he had to be drawing any number of conclusions.
"I'll take first watch," Fenris said abruptly.
"How does that make sense?" Amelle replied. "We had a head start. You must have been traveling hard. If anyone needs the rest, it's you."
It… made him feel strange, thinking she cared enough to consider his welfare. "I am accustomed to—"
"We all need rest. You've been traveling the longest, if you've been catching up this whole while. I'll take first watch." She scowled, and though the expression didn't last long, it was a welcome change from apprehension and fear. When she spoke, her tone was as pert as it had ever been. "Mostly because I'm fairly certain neither of you would wake me for a turn otherwise."
Fenris and the Knight-Commander exchanged another look, but this time Amelle caught them at it and coughed to let them know she knew what they were about. The templar's cheeks went ruddy in the firelight, and he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck like a chastised child. Fenris only twitched an eyebrow and headed for his bedroll. The Knight-Commander retreated to the opposite side of the cave, and Amelle made herself another cup of tea.
#
Amelle's head pounded. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples, rubbing slowly, letting a breath of healing magic into her head, but to no avail. That told her only one thing: she was doing this to herself. The ache couldn't be healed or magicked away; it was, maddeningly enough, in her head. What she truly wanted to do was cry. She wanted to fling herself down upon her bedroll and sob until nothing remained of… of whatever this was, lodged in her chest. Her worry for Kiara, and the uncomfortable, prickling shame that overwhelmed her every time she looked Fenris in the eye.
And it was Cullen who'd requested he'd join them. Cullen. She wanted to feel angry. Betrayed, even, that he'd done such a thing without so much as telling her. But, Maker help her, she was glad to see Fenris. Even if he was scowling at her, even if he was angry all over again that she'd left him behind — he was still there. Her fingers went to the tunic's neck, slowly running back and forth over the material. The clean scent of soap and familiar cypress — something intrinsically Fenris — clung to the garment, and Amelle breathed in deeply, despite herself.
Then she remembered, and pulled her hand away with a start, drinking deeply from her cup, not caring when the hot liquid scalded her throat.
You hurt him. You saw the agony in his eyes — you peeled back the layers, and you showed him what Danarius had suppressed. You had no business interfering, and until you can figure out how to mend this—if it can be mended—the only thing to do is give him a wide berth.
He'd come to fulfill his obligation. And, evidently, to loan her his clothes.
Blowing out a soft breath, Amelle tilted her head and rubbed her cheek against the material at her shoulder, missing a man who slept barely an arm's length away.
To prevent herself from caving to the temptation to reach out and brush the hair back from his brow—and oh, how she missed the feel of that hair between her fingers, so deceptively soft—Amelle rose to her feet and stalked to the entrance of the cave. The rain still fell and the wind still blew, but no other sound indicated danger. She sighed, leaning against the rough wall. The tunic slipped from her shoulder once again, but this time she let it stay; no one was awake to see, and every time she fussed with it she was all too aware that she wished someone else's hand were the one doing the fussing.
Amelle. Enough. You brought this on yourself.
She pinched the bridge of her nose sharply, as though pain might help clear her mind. All it did, though, was hurt. Behind her, one of the horses shifted, whinnying softly. They were still too far from Starkhaven, too far from Kiara, too far from anything. It would be a week at least, and that only if they could somehow make up the time lost to the weather. Not for the first time, she wished for some easier way. Some magical way.
"As if magic hasn't caused enough grief," she muttered quietly. The rain didn't answer.
A moment later, however, she heard a slight cough, and she turned her head just enough to see Cullen standing a couple of paces behind her, hands clasped behind his back and head slightly bowed. The rain made his hair curl even more than usual, and it stuck up indiscriminately, giving him a vaguely startled appearance. If she'd been any less distracted, any less troubled, it would have been comical.
"At least you didn't sleep-smite me tonight," she offered weakly, the humor falling pitifully flat. Cullen only looked sad, and for some reason his sadness made her head ache more. And twisted her stomach into knots.
"I'll take the second watch," he said.
She frowned, shaking her head at him. "Mine wasn't long enough."
"Amelle…"
"I'm not tired, Cullen," she lied. "Let me pull my own weight."
"I never claimed you wouldn't—or couldn't, for that matter. But I assure you, it is my turn to watch, and yours to rest. You've been awake longer than you think." He stepped no closer, though she could see the desire to do so warring on his features. "Amelle, I—"
"I… don't think I want to talk about it."
On a sigh, Amelle turned to face him, and continued, "I think I know why you did it. I'm not—" She stopped short, shaking her head. "I think I understand. I oughtn't to be surprised he followed; whatever happened between him and I, he's still… he's still Fenris. He's my sister's best friend—if something's wrong with her, he… it stands to reason he would want to assist her."
The look Cullen gave her was so pitying that Amelle found, to her embarrassment, her eyes prickling with tears.
"You look wretched," he said gently. "Get some rest."
"I'm fine. Not tir—" A sudden, wide yawn gripped her. By the time she recovered from it, Cullen was shaking his head. In his skeptical expression, a glimmer of fondness mingled with exasperation.
"I told you."
Amelle sighed. "Yes, you did."
"Go on," he said, nodding at her neat, empty bedroll situated between his mussed one, and Fenris' occupied one. "Things will look better in the morning."
"Only if this bloody rain stops," she replied glumly, dumping the last of her tea out onto the cave floor.
"It could be worse, you know. We could be in Ferelden. When it rains there—"
"It's measured in weeks," she supplied, trying a tiny smile strictly for Cullen's benefit. "I remember. We'd smell wet dog for days after it rained in Lothering." She turned and faced her bedroll. Perhaps sleep would help. It certainly couldn't hurt.
Then she felt Cullen's hand on her shoulder and she turned to meet his eyes. "Whatever it is, Amelle — and I dare not ask — you'll get it sorted out." At her dry huff of laughter, Cullen shook his head stubbornly. "You will."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you are not the type of person who gives up easily. I've seen you give yourself too many nosebleeds to believe otherwise."
While she still didn't agree, Amelle saw no point in arguing. Instead, she gave him a weak shrug. "Perhaps. We'll see."
Cullen's attempt at a smile was small and hesitant, and not a little wry, but he gave her shoulder a squeeze all the same and nudged her forward. "Now, go. Get some rest. Or I will smite you. On purpose this time."
"You know," she said mildly, "I'm not sure you're supposed to joke about smiting."
Cullen chuckled. "If smiting you into senselessness is the only way to make you see reason, who am I to dismiss it as a method? I believe it's a case of the ends justifying the means."
Amelle gave him a sour look. "No wonder you get along with my sister. Maker's balls, I'm glad she doesn't know how to smite."
Cullen pressed a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "I could teach her."
Amelle gaped. "You could not."
He ignored her. "Under normal circumstances I don't think I could teach a rogue, but your sister's hardly representative of the class. And Maker knows I've seen—nay, come face to face with—the force of her willpower. She's got an overabundance of will." He nodded, as if to himself. "I'm fairly certain I could teach her."
"Cullen, I'm going to—"
He raised his eyebrows and interjected, "Fling a fireball at me? Strike me down with lightning?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrowed her eyes. "No. I'm going to poison your next cup of tea. And then refuse to heal you."
He gave an exaggerated wince, and for a moment Amelle almost forgot the… the memory healing, and the letter, and the worry, and the rain. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm. His shirt was still faintly damp, and she was grateful—she'd never admit it, but she was grateful—for the dry, borrowed, piney-scented tunic even now slipping once again from her shoulder. "Cullen," she whispered, lowering her voice even though she was fairly certain Fenris was too far away—and too asleep—to overhear, "I'm… scared."
"I know," he replied, the moment of amusement fled. "I wish I could tell you it was unnecessary."
"Are you… are you going to go back? To Kirkwall? Now that Fenris is here?"
He blinked. "Is that why you thought I left the note?"
She shrugged uncomfortably. "I thought… I thought maybe you were passing the reins so you could return to… to the Order. To your duties. I know this all… came out of nowhere."
"Amelle…"
Glancing back at Fenris, still curled within his blankets, she continued quickly, before she lost her nerve, "I wouldn't blame you. I know how important it—"
"Amelle," he repeated sternly, taking her chin between his fingers and forcing her to meet him gaze for gaze. "No. I'm not going anywhere."
Relief flooded her body as Amelle closed her eyes and nodded, shuddering a little as some of the tension ebbed from her limbs. "All right," she whispered.
"Then there'll be no more talk of my leaving?" When she gave him a tiny, tremulous shake of her head, Cullen let his hand fall and smiled at her. "And no more talk of poisoning my tea?"
Amelle answered by flinging her arms around Cullen's neck and hugging him hard. He grunted at the force of the embrace and returned it, patting her back in a strange combination of awkwardness and affection before pulling away. "I promise."
"Now will you agree to get some sleep?"
"I will agree to try." Amelle's lips curved in the first true smile she'd felt since the rain had first started to fall. She took a step away from Cullen, sent another wave of magic over the fire until it crackled with a bit more life and warmth, and picked a path around the packs and bedrolls. She glanced briefly at Fenris, peacefully asleep, unable to ignore the sharp pang she felt as she settled down and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
She would sleep. The rain would stop. And things would look better in the morning.
